Early on Christmas morn, before the sun had begun to rise above the snowy hills, I decided to leave the warmth of the house and trek across the yard to the dairy barn, as I had countless times before. Across the fields, the neighbour's farms are all silent. Their barns are dark and stables all sit empty.
The milkhouse door creaks open, the bulk tank sits empty, and the pulsators all hang in a row, covered with cobwebs and silent forever more. The calendar on the wall sits frozen at April 1994, the month when the cows left.
The stanchions are layered with dust and it was cold and forlorn without the warm and friendly cattle. The wind howls down the empty silo.
I reflect upon the memories of countless Christmas mornings in the warm barn, protected from the blowing snow, and think that Christmas without all that, just isn't the same.
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